


I Never Forgot You

by Lyrae_Immortalis



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: (up until s4), Brain Damaged Ed, Canon Compliant, Dialogue Heavy, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Lazarus Pit, M/M, The Iceberg Lounge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 18:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12216900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrae_Immortalis/pseuds/Lyrae_Immortalis
Summary: "What does one do when the only whole thing about himself centres around the man who destroyed him? He finds a way to reclaim himself, to detach from the reminder of all that came before. But what if that doesn’t pan out the way he expected? What comes next?"A oneshot about how Ed divulges all the troubles and hassles that went into reclaiming his mind.





	I Never Forgot You

**Author's Note:**

> Happy reading!

“Do you know how difficult it is to do things you knew, with absolute certainty, that you could manage before— _without_ thought? Simple actions, such as cooking, writing...or even playing the piano.”

With his eyes falling to the tabletop, Ed slides his hands back and forth in mock rendition. His fingers curl and stroke invisible keys, filling the air with a melodic tune unheard to anyone but himself. Reclaiming this—his mind, his _faculties_ , was the toughest battle Ed has ever faced.

“I used to be able to perform a number of pieces, my fingers—” Ed wiggles them through the air, then drops his wrists to the table so he can fold his hands together, “—you can see they work perfectly now, but a _mere_ few months ago they couldn't connect to the part of my brain that said _play_. Pieces I composed _myself_ , that are very much entwined within me, alongside my aortic system, _vanished_ without a trace. They were sealed behind a door I did not possess the key to.”

Ed sighs, melancholic at his recollections and the tangled stream of memories they brew. Each syllable he utters draws them forth much like the ocean follows the pull of the moon. Predestined and unavoidable, as is this very meeting. 

“Do you know what that’s like?” 

~~~

The first thing Ed did when he broke out of his chilled cylindrical chamber was to stumble and fall. Like a newborn foal taking its first steps, his legs slipped out from beneath him, uncoordinated, mindless, much like their host. Birth was never easy, rebirth even less so. For minutes Ed lie on the floor of an azure lit club, barely able to breathe, think or perceive anything but the numbing cold that originated from his very core.

His body shook and seized, rattling between each strained joint. With his mouth agape Ed inhaled specks of dirt and coughed out water, and when his nerves fired he wanted to scream, only the only sound that escaped was a strangled gurgle coiled in the back of his throat. _What? What? What?_ His mind fired that single word consecutively. Cyclic repetitions, like a record which held just one track. _What?_ Ed was struggling, fighting to break free. He may have fallen from ice but immersed in the heat of the room...he _burned_. Ice burned too. Flexing his fingers and wiggling his toes, Ed curled into a ball, wincing as an electric current ripped through him. There was so much— _too much_ sensation, his mind could not cope with the overwhelming influx of a body made of rigid ice slowly becoming malleable flesh. It was far more brutal than _any_ injury he had sustained in his previous life. 

As the fog clouding his mind began to wane and his eyes drew focus, Ed baulked at the sight of several penguin statues situated around the room. _I can't stay here_ , was Ed’s first conscious thought. _This is—this is Oswald's place, the Penguin's...I can't—I need to go. It's not safe here._

Ed scrambled to his knees and then to his feet, collapsing against several tables and chairs as he wormed his way out of the room, tripping over himself every so often. He was thankful he didn't encounter another soul inside the establishment, for he knew, without a doubt, that he would not have been able to fight them off. As the door clicked closed behind him, Ed trudged forward with his arms wrapped around his stomach and his head bowed. He watched his feet pass blearily beneath him, each step leading to an unspecified location, carrying him further away from everything Oswald.

_What now? Where do I go? I have nothing, no one…._

~~~

“So I went to see Thompkins,” Ed relays as he tears into the corner of a black napkin, twisting and ripping it to shreds, replicating the way his nerves grate through the inner lining of his stomach. The physical act helps to separate him from his internal turmoil and despite his uneasiness, he continues with an unwavering voice. There is only one thing he needs to do now, and that is to finish his tale.

“It might not have been the most logical of decisions, but logic was no longer a part of my toolbox. My mind, as I soon discovered, connected things oddly. Anytime I opened my mouth I received looks of confusion and apprehension. People were sceptical of me, for reasons which had little to do with my past reputation.” Ed exhales sharply and mashes his lips together in a smile that contains little joy. It was not easy being ridiculed day after day when he knew that the previous version of himself could think circles around almost anyone. Rolling his shoulders, Ed presses forward. 

“Those... _encounters_ forced me to perceive that which I had tried to ignore, for the mere notion of being less than what I was, was not something I wished to acknowledge. Even a task as simple as reflection proved itself tiresome. The wires of my mind, the neurons and synapses, were crossed and tangled together. My thoughts and memories filtered through disconnected, with white noise bridging the gap between both ends.”

Licking his bottom lip, Ed doesn’t _dare_ raise his eyes off the small pile of he’s created. He fiddles with each crumpled piece, forming patterns and constructing structures before he stirs it together so he can begin again. “So after days of digging around in there—in my head, whilst I sat in a number of alleyways and abandoned buildings, I made a move that could very well have seen me killed.”

~~~

“Nygma, I’d like to say it’s a pleasure, only that it well... _isn’t_.”

“I—I’m sorry for visiting, for _intruding_ , but I need...help.”

“I can see that,” Lee said, flicking her gaze over his frame, eyes narrowing and lingering on the dirt patches and rips in his once pristine suit. What a mess a few days could make. Sweeping her hair over her shoulder, Lee leant back in her seat and pursed her lips. “How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t difficult.” _It was,_ Ed thought as he shuffled on his feet, not knowing if he was allowed to sit down or not...so he remained where he was with his hands curled into the ends of his sleeves. “It was only a simple matter of _uhh_...cross tracking— _referencing_ past locations and connections that someone of your station possesses. You’re still a Falcone. People talk.” 

“Little good that’s done me,” Lee muttered under breath and Ed’s brows furrowed. _What?_ Despite knowing that there was a point she was trying to make, he couldn’t discern it. It was both perplexing and infuriating, in equal measure. Whilst Lee lost herself to her thoughts, Ed set to subtly rucking up the ends of his sleeves so he could peer down at the notes he wrote hours ago. 

_Lee Thompkins: Doctor._

_Married into the Falcone family._

_Disowned, estranged, alone._

_Jim Gordon at fault? Tetch Virus? Both?_

_Find her! Convince her to help!_

_How?_

Lifting his hand, he nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose and swept his fingertips through the front of his hair, all the while overly aware at the crooked way Lee was now staring at him. 

_Reflection time’s over then._

“So why is it you decided that _I_ was the best person to come to? Did you have a fallout with your little gang?”

“You’re a—or you were...no, you still are. That’s not something—”

“Spit it out, I don’t have all day.”

“Stop hounding me, I’m _trying_ ,” Ed huffed, folding his arms, narrowly avoiding the impulse to stop his feet like a child. She didn’t understand. She couldn’t. Was she even aware of all that had happened to him, or had she, like so many others, forgot he existed? Where was the line? Did it even exist anymore? _Do I?_

“You’re a doctor,” Ed stated plainly and even that he struggled with, after all, who needed to write a speech for a simple exchange? Forgetfulness was something Ed was becoming fast friends with, so he carried a notepad, wrote lines up and down his arms and on the back of his hands, detailing anything and everything that may be useful. “You’re the only person who may know of a way to _fix_ me.”

Lee laughed sardonically, head tipped back in mirth. Ed fully expected her to turn him away...who wouldn’t? Others had done it before, pre and post his glacial incarceration. Why would she be any different? It came as a shock when she waved a hand to the couch before her, motioning for him to sit.

Rigidly accepting the invitation, Ed plopped himself down and folded his long legs beneath him.

“So, what exactly do you need _help_ with? Keep in mind, I can and probably will say no.”

Nodding more to himself than to her, Ed rolled up his sleeves and bared his arms. Amongst countless words and haphazard lines lie question marks varying in size. Each symbol signified his confusion and deviation from a life which was once whole.

“Help me make sense of this. Help me find a way to restore that which has been taken from me.”

~~~

“Electroshock therapy...not pleasant.” Ed winces and forces himself to remain still, ignoring the way a mere thought stirs the ghostly sensation of electricity. _Never again will I subject myself to such barbaric torment,_ he thinks as he wrings his wrist, soothing his phantom injuries.

Before him, sits Oswald, rigid demeanour and stoically withdrawn. His glass of alcohol remains untouched, simply forgotten as though the words spilling into the air are the only thing that exists between them. Ed wants to ask if he’s listening, if he has any thoughts on the matter, if he _cares_ , but he doesn’t. What would questions like that solve? In all likelihood Oswald deems their meeting farcical, a mere senseless concoction on Ed’s behalf. Another tool of manipulation. 

It made sense why Oswald chose his lounge as the _optimal_ location for their meeting. It’s his power base, an establishment he controls every facet of...and in the middle of the club, upon a raised platform, stands the remnants of Ed’s prison, empty and hollow. _I remember the feeling._ The theatrical threat is both ostentatious; only Oswald would keep the structure on display despite its negative connotations. A shudder runs up Ed’s spine, rattling his shoulders and his nails bite into his palms. Oswald always did have a flair for the dramatics...coupled with a deeply embedded venomous streak that flares when faced with those who have scorned him. It makes sense...and for better or worse, it serves to keep Ed continually unsettled, but like a dandelion rising up between the cracks of the pavement, he persists.

“If it could open the doors to the parts of my brain that were sealed shut, then I was willing to try it. Although studies into the area were _sketchy_ at best, and with little clue if it would lead to further deterioration or not, I willingly placed myself on the gurney time and time again...hoping— _praying_ something would click, that I would be made whole.” 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Ed exhales into the palm of his hand. “I think Lee took great pleasure in administering the first few _treatments_. After attempt six, things began to change.”

~~~

Ed grunted around the rubber bar trapped firmly between clenched teeth. The pain was excruciating. His body seized, muscles contracted and tendons tightened as the probes met his temples and the firestorm raged within. For seconds, minutes or hours, a swirling inferno ripped its way through him leaving behind aftershocks that clung desperately. Despite recommendation, Ed refused to be put under during his sessions. Lee admonished him time and time again, but Ed held firm. It was his one condition. He wouldn’t allow someone that power over him, he wouldn’t allow himself to be so defenceless, even if it _was_ to his own detriment.

“This isn’t working,” Lee huffed as she tossed the implements to the floor before flicking off the surrounding machines, and the undercurrent that vibrated the air around them fell flat. “Ifwe continue with this, you _will_ die.”

Ed couldn’t answer and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

~~~

“I mean, it’s not like it mattered. Who am I without my intellect? That was— _is_ something I have _always_ prided myself on, something that set me apart from the otherwise meagre populous. It has brought me many opportunities: some good, others bad. To live without it was a path I did not want to walk. So—” 

“You seem normal now,” Oswald interjects. He began drinking again as Ed spoke about his _treatments_ , tossing back a glass or three of wine. Finishing off his fourth, lips pursed as he swallows, Oswald turns the glass over in hand and narrows his eyes. “What changed?”

A smile tweaks the corners of Ed’s mouth. What is normal to them anymore? Normal is something Ed has never been, but the notion is amusing. “I think you mean... _same_ ,” Ed retorts playfully, gesturing down his body with a flick of his wrist. “I am as I once was, and to answer how this came about...well it all depends on if you believe in magic.” 

“To be completely honest with you, Ed, I struggle to accept anything you are telling me...but sure, whatever... _magic._ ” Oswald rolls his eyes and Ed hums in amusement. Their camaraderie never changes. It’s a staple Ed’s becoming quite fond of as it is something that doesn’t require questioning. It just... _is._

Even when they _were_ friends it consisted of a little bickering here and some banter there, only now there was the added layer of thinly veiled threats lurking in the shadows. _It could be worse_ , Ed muses to himself as he fiddles with the buttons on his sleeves, _at least I’m not dead._

“I found the fountain of youth...or it’s more realistic counterpart,” Ed continues. It’s best not to keep Oswald waiting. It was by luck of the draw he even agreed to this sit-down. “That is to say if you believe that somewhere in Gotham lies a mystical glowing pond with magical restorative properties that can cure any ailment, even death, then _yes_.”

Oswald drops into silence once more. Ed recognises the way his features shift and pinch as he works through the unlikely scenario. As convoluted as it sounds, and Ed would be dubious too if he didn't experience it all for himself, it is all _true_. 

~~~

“This... _this_ is supposed to help me?” Ed asked Barbara as he strolled around the rim of the shimmering pool, face pinched in distaste.

“Well either that or it'll kill you. The terms and conditions are never clear when magic is involved,” Barbara stated flippantly, eyeing Lee who was leaning against a barren wall, seemingly disinterested but Ed knew her well enough now that she was absorbing every detail.

"And I'm supposed to..."

"Hop right in. I can't tell you anything more than that, Eddie. I wasn't exactly conscious...or _alive_ when I did this. I never had to make the choice you do." She strode her way over to him, heels striking like whips, and placed a hand on his arm. If the touch was supposed to be reassuring, it didn't help. It felt too weighted, as did his decision. "It's a game of chance," Barbara continued, eyes luminescent, reflecting the iridescent gleam of the water. "Are you willing to play?"

Tossing his head over his shoulder, Ed peered back at Lee. His brows raised as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth. There was no coming back from this. Does he stay as he is, _impaired_ , fated to live a life unwhole, or does he risk everything for a minuscule chance things will work out in his favour? 

"If this fails—"

"Then I'll pass on your letter. We've discussed this."

What could go wrong? It was only his life on the line—a _half_ life. Resolve firm, Ed shook his arms and exhaled what may be one of his final breaths. "Now or never," he muttered to himself as he stepped forward into the pool. It was time to take destiny into his own hands.

~~~

“Well this was... _enlightening_ , but do I believe _storytime_ is over for the night. You may leave.”

Ed swallows back a wince at the blatant dismissal. Is this the way it will always be between them; Ed reaching out and Oswald thwarting every attempt? It is no less than he deserves, two assassination attempts would do that, but Ed desires change. Can't they put this arbitrary nonsense behind them? _Can't Oswald see that I no longer mean him any harm?_

"Oswald, wait!" Ed shoots out a hand and nabs him by the wrist, holding him in place. The void between them needs to be filled, their imbalance restored. _It's why I'm here, after all._

“What is it, Ed?” Oswald all but hisses as he breaks free of the hold. “What else can you _possibly_ have to say? Haven’t I entertained you enough for one night?” 

"Aren’t you curious about what I found in the Lazarus pit?" Ed asks as he leans forward over the small round table. There is still so much more of this tale he has yet to divulge. _Please give me the time to explain myself. Don’t banish me, yet._

“Not particularly.”

“Then _perhaps_ you’d find it interesting to know that I never forgot you.”

Rendered speechless, Oswald gapes. Ed watches his eyebrows narrow and his jaw twitch before he snaps it shut with a click of his teeth. The muscles in Oswald’s cheeks ripple as he turns his head in the direction of Ed’s glacial chamber. “I didn’t think you would,” he mutters, “after all, I am the one that caused all of this.”

“No—well, that’s up for debate, but it’s more than that, Oswald. I—’ 

“Oh, of _course,_ it’s more than that,” Oswald shouts as he jumps to his feet, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s always _something_ with you, isn’t it Ed? You can never be simp—no, _no_ that’s not a question you need to answer. It’s a statement. A _fact._ You, Edward Nygma, can _never_ be simple. So what is it you were going to say, _hmm?_ Perhaps you want to mention how you were cultivating your own little gang in the name of revenge. Yes, I heard about that.”

“I’m not going to deny that I found and persuaded people to help me.” Ed remains seated and even-tempered, vitriolic outbursts are Oswald’s forte, after all. To rise to the occasion would be a moot point, but Ed can’t help but feel defensive at Oswald’s accusations for they _do_ hold merit. “What did you expect, Oswald? You were the biggest threat to my livelihood, so I did what I had to in order to protect myself. Admonishing me for something you also do seems almost redundant, don’t you think?”

“And yet you risked _everything_ to go splashing in a pond, a pond which could have killed you.” 

“That was on my own terms,” Ed snaps, chair skidding back as he rises to his feet and advances on Oswald. “If I didn’t make it out, if that water _boiled_ me alive or dragged me into a pit of nothingness, it would have come as a result of my own actions. It would have been _my fate_ —something controlled by _no other_. If death was what I sought, I would have put myself in _your_ path, but that wasn’t what drove me. Riddle me this, Oswald. Echoing throughout your lifetime, a souvenir of good times and bad. Forgotten or remembered, no person is whole without me. What am I?”

“Memories,” Ed answers himself, tapping the side of his head. “I asked you a riddle similar to this, what feels like many years ago.”

“I remember,” Oswald responds, poignantly. His eyes dart left and right, flicking across everything and anything, bar Ed.

“And that’s my point—” Ed sighs in acknowledgement of their shared history, but there are pages Oswald has yet to read, events he doesn’t know have occurred. The book is open and Oswald refuses to glance at it. “—I remembered too.”

Pulling up a chair, Ed collapses into it, legs slipping left and right. He drops an elbow to the armrest, cards his fingers through his hair and stares at the space between Oswald’s turned out feet. “I remembered too,” he repeats, solemnly. “When I woke, with fear controlling the speed of my heart, the first succinct though I had...was of _you._ In the beginning I shrugged it off as self-preservation, my will to survive, but as the weeks turned you were still there—living within memories of every variety.”

Ed holds his tongue as Oswald eyes him quizzically. To be pinned under the penetrating stare of the Penguin is unsettling; Ed’s stomach flops and the hairs on the nape of his neck tingle, but he doesn’t break their connection. He grants Oswald access to his mind, allowing him to read the truth behind his words in the depths of his eyes. For minutes Oswald stands stoically with nary a flicker of emotion crossing his features before he blinks twice, arches his head to the left and hobbles his way back to his former seat. “Continue,” he says with a wave of his hand and Ed does.

“What makes a person, Oswald? How is it you became who you are?” The question catches Oswald off guard and Ed almost wants to laugh and he _might have_ if a melancholic weight wasn’t currently encapsulating him, drowning him in sorrows. “If I take away your cane, your club, your home...if I rid you of your support system and your money, are you still the Penguin? The answer is, yes, of course,” Ed says quickly, not wanting to be perceived as the threat Oswald has marked him as, the threat he _used to be_. “Even without all those personal extras, you would still be you. But how were you born—and no, we aren’t talking about reproduction. How did _The Penguin_ come about?” 

“Ed, _what_ are you talking about?”

“Just answer the question, Oswald!”

“ _Fine,_ ” Oswald grouses, lip curled in distaste. Slowly the intensity in his features begins to wane; the wrinkles on his nose and between his brows soften, his lips fall flat and his shoulders fall just a smidge. “To put it plainly, I made myself.”

“You did.” Ed had once had the pleasure of watching and _assisting_ Oswald with his growth, felt graced that he had somehow endeared himself enough to the man that the opportunity presented itself...and now _...now_ he was the _cause_ of this new iteration. The instigator behind his change. _Just as he is mine..._

“Where is a sense of self derived from?” Ed asks, pressing forward. His time in the Lazarus pit may have seen his pieces align and the doors unlock but Ed wasn’t ready to dig deeply into hismemories. “Memories are what shape people,” he conveys. “Memories are what make people who they are...but what is a self without memory? If you remove some and suppress others, how does—how does that affect someone?” 

Oswald had been through this before—something _similar,_ at least. Ed recalls one of their evening chats where Oswald confided in him, the terrors of his time in Arkham. _He can relate...in part._ This likely has something to do with the reason Oswald is sitting so rigidly, frowning into a new glass of wine.

“I tried to replace them with something else—the memories of you. I wanted to overwrite them. When stringing a sentence together was difficult, recalling our first, second— _god_ _Oswald._..all, _all_ of our encounters were there.” Ed squeezes his eyelids shut and slams a finger against his temple, twisting it until his nail cuts into his skin. "They wouldn't stop haunting me. You...wouldn't... _stop_."

Oh and how Ed wished they did. He wished to find peace— _his pieces_. A year ago, those memories were a precious commodity, something Ed would spend a little too much time flicking through. He would lie in his bed in the middle of the night, when creaks of an old house settling were the only thing keeping him company and he would dive into his mind, stringing together anything he missed, any subtle contradiction or correlation. He yearned for more time with Oswald but time had its limits, and before he could fully prepare himself, their river ran leaving behind a dry cracked pond. 

Taking several deep breaths, Ed recollects himself and folds his hands in his lap, twiddling his thumbs together. "Sorry, I—" Ducking his head, he watches his chest expand and contract, tracking each shallow movement, anxiously waiting for the shifting inside of him to settle.

"Ed, are you—"

With a wave of his hand, Ed silences Oswald. "Give me a moment, _please,_ " he says, trying to restrain the whine in the back of his throat. Oswald was easier to deal with when his actions were fueled by anger, not this contrasting tenderness. _No matter how many barriers we try to place between ourselves, we will always be each other's weaknesses._

Nudging his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Ed sighs. _Where was I—oh right!_

"The memories of you were there to be fiddled with, whole compared to other fractured segments." _So far so good. I can do this,_ Ed tells himself. "I remembered the way you would smile at me, with one side of your mouth higher than the other, and the way you would earnestly thank me at the end of each day." _He always did that._

Despair tightens its fist and snags the strings of grief. Tightlipped, Ed smiles through his emotional pain and blinks back the prickling sensation in his eyes. _No tears. Not now. Not here_. "I remembered the day you asked if you could _help me_ and the time you earnestly asked for mine; the time you secured my release from Arkham and granted me a place in your home, a place beside you. I remembered... _shooting you—”_

"Stop—"

"and watching as the weight of my actions dragged you away, but what cycled through my head the most—"

"Ed, _stop—_ "

"were the times you said you loved me. Not one—”

"Quiet!" Oswald shouts as he flings himself across the table, teeth bared. In shock, Ed throws himself back and topples to the floor; beside him, a wine glass smashes into shards, spilling its viscous like contents in a misshapen puddle. 

“You’re sceptical...of me, of all of this.”

“Do you blame me?” Oswald squawks, flapping his arms about as he maps the length of the room with his signature gait. “Wouldn’t you be?”

“It’s a matter of contention.” Tucking his legs beneath him, Ed rises and nonchalantly flicks invisible flecks of dirt off his suit, action interrupted when Oswald insinuates himself before him.

“How am I supposed to believe anything you say?” Oswald hisses, jabbing his finger into Ed’s chest, striking his sternum, forcing him back. “You waltz in here after _months_ , after all we’ve been through just to tell me _what?_ That you’re _better?_ That you _missed_ me? That you’re _sorry?_ Forgive me if I don’t see your transgressions in this new light you’ve so clearly been blinded by.”

Blinking slowly, Ed grinds his teeth together and straightens to his full height, peering down the end of his nose at Oswald. "Back off," he growls maliciously, anger taking possession. "I came here to _fix_ things." The words are sharp on the tip of his tongue, cutting through the air, but Oswald doesn't budge an inch. The Penguin was undeniably foolish in the face of a challenge, so self-assured, and that was what made him dangerous for foolish men were unpredictable. "Even after you _mocked_ me, _ridiculed_ me, and put me on display. Even after you tried to kill me—"

Oswald scoffs, smiling crookedly in mock glee and nabs Ed by the collar of his shirt, hauling him down till their noses were a hair's width apart. "You tried to kill _me!_ " Wine tinted specks of spit splatter Ed's face, heightening the extent of Oswald's venomous hatred. It is the wake up call Ed needed. _There’s no reasoning with him._

Blinking slowly, Ed grinds his teeth together and huffs through each breath. Matching Oswald's indignant wit would be a simple task, repressing the urge isn't quite as easy. The desire to both outperform Oswald and appeal to him rollercoaster Ed’s emotions, twisting them up until they wrap around each other, transforming into a swirling cyclone of internal calamity.

The blood in Ed’s body stirs violently and whooshes past his ears. As he turns his thoughts through his mind, Ed stares into the blazing sea green eyes of the man he once called friend and finds himself needing to break away. Shoving his fingers beneath the lenses of his glasses, he presses on his eyelids and rips himself out of Oswald’s grasp, walking forward until his legs meet the lip of a table.

“Stupid,” Ed mutters into his palms. “It was stupid of me to think that—"

"For once we are in agreement.” Oswald says. “You _are_ stupid.”

Ed’s freezes, joints seizing, and for two heartbeats he remains in that position, with his head buried in his hands before he throws it back and laughs. Biting into his knuckles, he laughs. Spinning on his heel and staring into Oswald’s befuddled face, he laughs. Focusing intently on the greenish hue in Oswald’s eyes, he stops laughing. _I can never be simple, he’s right!_

What does one do when the _only_ whole thing about himself centres around the man who destroyed him? He finds a way to reclaim himself, to detach from the reminder of all that came before. But what if that doesn’t pan out the way he expected? What comes next?

Strident steps carry Ed across the room in seconds, each press of his foot triples the speed of his heart. Oswald frowns, and any rebuttal he has dies before it can be uttered. “You’re right, I _am_ stupid,” Ed says ardently, as his hands take purchase of Oswald’s lapels, reefing him forward, “but then again, _so are you._ ” At the widening of Oswald’s eyes, Ed ducks his head and connects their lips, tasting the very essence of the man who claws through his mind on a daily basis.

This is what one does when he can no longer separate himself. He indulges in it, he entwines himself within it, taking back everything that is his, as well as losing himself again in the process. Their kiss is brisk, passionate and uncoordinated. After a brief pause, Oswald clings onto Ed and strives forward till their noses bump and teeth clash; till their mouths perfectly align and they groan. 

“What are you doing?” Oswald says, breath laboured, before licking into Ed’s mouth, sharing the flavour of wine that coats his tongue.

_Reclaiming myself,_ Ed wants to say, only it doesn’t feel entirely correct. “Something stupid,” is what he settles on as he cradles the back of Oswald’s head and threads his fingers through the crisp uneven strands. Hooking an arm around Oswald’s waist, Ed draws him close, their bodies connect in a streamline, hard and soft lines intersecting in ways he has only dreamed of.

“Wait...” Oswald says breathlessly, pushing on Ed's chest, separating them a fraction. "We can't—we can't do this, _we shouldn't_." His hands stroke up and down as he speaks, fingers delving between the buttons of Ed's shirt, grazing skin. Eyelashes fluttering, Ed nuzzles into Oswald's hair and trails his lips across his forehead. "I don't trust you," Oswald whispers, yet despite his words, he doesn't draw himself away, something Ed is all too pleased about.

Swallowing thickly as he is tugged down by his tie, Ed's bottom lip is captured between Oswald's teeth. It's licked and it's sucked, drawing voiceless moans from Ed's throat, riddling him with lust. " _Oswald_ ," Ed pleads, sweeping down to reclaim his— 

“My office, _now_ ,” Oswald orders and he proceeds to guide Ed through the maze of tables that line the floor of the club. They step over the spilt wine and smashed glass, hands never straying far from each other's bodies and when the door clicks closed behind them, and their clothes puddle at their feet, Ed smiles.


End file.
